


Between your legs

by silveryogis



Category: Karneval
Genre: Blow Jobs, Groping, M/M, Smut, gareki is a little shit and yogi can't deal, in which gareki is a little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveryogis/pseuds/silveryogis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gareki gets frisky with Yogi at dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between your legs

**Author's Note:**

> do people say frisky anymore? i dunno. but there's groping.

It’s been ages since Gareki’s had any fun.

Mostly, he blames all of that on Hirato, who has elected that Gareki spend most of his free time helping Nai with his studying—not that Gareki really minds that, it’s only that it’s not what he  _really_ wants to be doing with his free time. It’s nothing like having his  _head_ between Yogi’s legs.

But that’s probably not the best thing to be thinking about at dinner.

Gareki thinks about it anyway. Slowly sliding a piece of steak between his teeth, he glances next to him where Yogi is filling his plate with nothing but jello. On the other end of the table, Nai is eating the plants, which—which is really annoying. Probably more annoying than the jello. There are probably only plants on the table in the  _first place_ because Hirato knew Nai would eat them, and he put them there just to be a giant shit like that. Tsukumo sits between him and Jiki, chewing quietly on a tiny sandwich (why are there even tiny sandwiches on the table, Gareki wonders, what the hell is wrong with a  _proper_ sized sandwich). Kiichi is complaining about something.

Come to think about it, Gareki doesn’t even know what the two of them are  _doing_ here, Kiichi and Jiki. Something about a mission tomorrow.

To keep his mind off Nai eating the plants and Yogi eating nothing but goddamn  _sugar_ , he entertains the idea of dropping underneath the table right then to kiss up the inside seam of Yogi’s pants. He doesn’t, of course, but he imagines everyone’s faces, and imagines Yogi’s reaction, and that makes him smirk around his fork. He looks down to check whether Yogi is wearing tight pants or not.

Oh,  _hell_ yeah. 

Yogi notices him looking. “Gareki-kun,” he says, cheerfully sliding some jello onto his plate. “You should eat something other than meat, you know.”

Gareki eyes flick back up to Yogi’s plate.

“Like you’re one to talk.”

“It’s useless,” Tsukumo says. “Neither of you will eat anything else.”

“Why should I?” Gareki and Yogi both say it at the same time, and Yogi blushes and smiles, saying something like  _wow Gareki-kun, we really are connected!_ and Gareki clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and goes back to eating his non-varied diet of meat.

Gareki drops his hand underneath the table and slides it under the tablecloth to rest on Yogi’s leg. Yogi blushes a little more, but it’s not like he’s  _doing_ anything  _incriminating_ —yet. He’s just touching his boyfriend’s leg, and that’s alright, isn’t it?

But it’s not very  _fun._

Jiki starts warning Nai about the side effects of all the plants he’s chewing on, and that he probably shouldn’t be. Tsukumo touches his arm and tells him that that’s hopeless too, and he should just focus on what he’s eating. Kiichi rolls her eyes like everyone is an idiot (and Gareki privately agrees with her). That shitty four eyes sits at the head of the table, watching everything with a quiet amusement. It doesn’t even look like he’s eaten anything, the asshat.

Yogi smiles softly and innocently covers Gareki’s hand with his, like he can’t even fathom the not so innocent things rumbling dangerously through Gareki’s head. Throwing him back and pinning his shoulder blades against the table, dragging him off to grind him into a wall where no one could see them, but where they could hear. Crawling into his lap  _right then_ , where everyone  _could_ fucking see. He doesn’t think he’d actually do any of those things, but he does get just the slightest bit hard thinking about it, and he thinks it’s about time to repay that favor. Quietly.

Gareki  _loves_ being between Yogi’s legs. He loves the way the hard muscle of his thighs flexes in response to the touch of his lips, and the way he moans so, so appreciatively for him. Gareki loves the way Yogi sounds when he’s turned on like that, when he’s touching him or humming with his mouth wrapped around Yogi’s cock.

It’s one of the better uses for mouths. 

Gareki smirks thinking about it, and slides another piece of steak into his mouth while he runs his hand up and down Yogi’s thigh. Yeah, his pants are  _tight as hell_ , and that’s just fucking fantastic.

And he’s his beautiful, foolish boyfriend. Why  _shouldn’t_ he touch him?

Now, Nai is asking Hirato questions about the sheep, and Hirato is giving him answers that aren’t really answers. Jiki and Tsukumo are talking about something Gareki doesn’t really care about. He still doesn’t know what that guy is doing here.

No one tells him things.

In a few minutes, the shitty captain takes his leave, and pats Gareki on the head three times before he leaves the room, leaving the six of them to their dinner.

Gareki chews, and slides his hand up between Yogi’s legs, and squeezes.

The noise Yogi makes is  _really_ satisfying, and he finally yanks his hand away from Gareki’s, nearly jumping a foot in the air. It’s almost unbelievable that he  _didn’t_ expect Gareki to go for his dick, eventually. 

“Gareki-kun,” he starts, but then he must realize that everyone is blinking at him, because he coughs with his fist over his mouth, eyes still wide. Gareki squeezes again, looking in the other direction. Yogi swallows audibly.

Flicking his eyes back over to him, Gareki props his chin up on the palm of his other hand. “What is it?” he asks coolly.

“You shouldn’t—” Yogi swallows again, “—eat nothing but meat, Gareki-kun. It’s bad—bad  _table manners.”_

It’s a pretty good save, actually. As far as these things are concerned. But this is  _Gareki,_ and he’s groping his boyfriend under the table and he really has no intention of stopping.

“But I like meat,” he counters, rubbing the heel of his hand against the growing bulge in Yogi’s pants. “I don’t want  _anything_ but meat.”

He puts a sausage in his mouth, probably to illustrate a lewd point, and he’s pretty sure that Yogi dies right then.

No one else seems to realize exactly what it is that he’s doing—Gareki’s careful to keep the movement in his wrist, and he even keeps up conversation with the other people at the table to demonstrate exactly that he is  _not_ squeezing Yogi’s dick underneath the table. 

“But it’s—” Yogi continues to protest some time later, a blush bright and red across his face. “It’s bad to—”

“He’s right,” Jiki comments, and Gareki flicks his eyes up to his. “You don’t want to get sick, do you?” His tone is light and pleasant, but he’s such a little shit about it, it makes Gareki want to flick a little piece of steak at him anyway. Which he doesn’t. What a waste of steak  _that_ would be.

Instead, he just shrugs and chews quietly, thumbing over Yogi’s cock, straining hard against the zipper of his pants. It pleases him to see that he’s  _hard as hell_ , and in such tight pants, too. Serves him  _right_ , for wearing pants like that. God damn.

Of course, Gareki is pretty turned on too. So turned on, he’s close to just dragging Yogi underneath the table so they can furiously rub their cocks against each other until they’re both gasping and satisfied—he figures he’d better not, though.

If only.

“I should—” Yogi presses his knuckles hard against his mouth, lips pressed tight. “I’m not feeling well, I should go—”

“What, and leave the table?” Gareki lazily tips his head at him, rolls his fingers. Yogi squeaks. “That’s pretty rude, isn’t it?”

“If you don’t feel well, you should lie down,” Tsukumo says, her eyes pressed in slight worry. “I can make some tea for you, if you want.”

“Do you think you’re coming down with something?” Jiki asks, drumming his fingers against the table. “Because I can make something for you, like the time I helped Kiichi with her—”

“—You shut up about that!” Kiichi yells, and (by the look of it) kicks him under the table. Nai just blinks at everyone.

“Yogi’s breathing is funny,” Nai says, and Gareki almost curses when he remembers that the damn animal has super fucking hearing. “It’s quick. His heartbeat sounds funny, too.”

Yogi smiles and blushes and chokes all at the exact same time. Finally, his fingers circle around Gareki’s wrist and he removes his hand (which is really all it would have taken in the first place, goddamn), and Gareki can see the conflict in his face. If he just stands up and leaves, then everyone will see—well, they’d see his dick. Basically. Yogi coughs, turns around awkwardly in his seat, and scoots away with his back to the table, turning the corner before everyone has the chance to ask him where he’s going. Gareki sighs.

If it’s suspicious that he’s following after him, he really doesn’t give a fuck. So he stands up (and that’s alright, because his pants aren’t fucking  _vacuum sealed to his legs_ ), and wanders off after him. He leaves just in time to hear Jiki say  _must be constipation_ , and that makes him snort. Yeah. Alright.

Once he catches back up to him, Yogi turns around and grabs onto his wrists. “Gareki-kun,” he whines, “that was really unfair!”

“What?” Gareki tips his head at him. “How was it unfair?”

“Because—” Yogi presses his eyebrows, and Gareki just keeps looking at him. He doesn’t want to wait to hear  _why_ Yogi thinks it was unfair, so he pushes his knee between his legs and pins him back against the wall of the hallway, kissing him hard. Yogi stops trying to articulate whatever it was he was trying to say, and throws all of his concentration into kissing him back, into gasping against his mouth and threading fingers through his hair.

“You’re pretty worked up, huh?” Gareki murmurs against the heat of his mouth.  Yogi pants.

“ _Yes_ ,” he breathes, curling his hips up. “That’s  _your_ fault.”

Gareki will take responsibility for that. Anything that leaves Yogi this breathless and desperate, he’ll take the blame for every time. They stumble back into Yogi’s room (it’s close, thank god), and only pry themselves away from each other long enough to shut the door and kick off their shoes. They collapse on the bed, a tangle of frantic limbs, fighting to remove clothes without separating. Gareki has the most trouble with Yogi’s pants, those pants, the pants that make his ass look fucking  _amazing_ ; he groans into his throat and grinds against his hips, fingers dragging against the sheets. 

Finally, he gets to be where he’s wanted to be all night—between Yogi’s legs, kissing up his thigh and running his fingers down the sharp grooves of his hipbones. Yogi’s breath catches in his throat, and Gareki spends a long time sucking his dick, not doing it hard enough so Yogi will come, but  _good_ enough so it’ll keep him moaning and gripping his hair. Goddamn, he’s hot. It kills him that it took him so goddamn long to notice.

By the time Gareki finally pushes inside him, Yogi’s already so close, he not saying anything but Gareki’s name, quiet and hushed and like a fucking  _prayer._

“Shit, Yogi.” He drops his head down into his shoulder, and swears, over and over. It’s not always like this, fast and aggressive and over way too fucking quickly, but when it is—fuck, Gareki really loves it when it is like that, because it’s the only hint Yogi ever gives him that he can be just as broken and desperate as he feels, sometimes. His back arches, Yogi’s, and he’s so goddamn hot, he’s beautiful and  _sexy_ and he’s a tangle of wild limbs underneath him, pushing his hips up and moaning that this is everything, it’s everything.

They come, almost at the same time. Gareki shouts it down Yogi’s throat, biting at his swollen lips when he does come. Yogi, already boneless and spent, purrs appreciatively against his mouth, holding him steady. He’s good at that, holding him steady.

Finally, they collapse against each other. Gareki pushes a hand through Yogi’s hair, looking at him like he’s still amazed that it  _feels_ like that, that  _Yogi_ feels like that. He wonders if other people feel as good as that, even though he knows that they don’t. No one could  _possibly_.

“That was amazing, Gareki-kun,” Yogi murmurs gently, kissing his forehead. “I love you.”

“Yeah,” Gareki pants, not moving. Yogi’s lips are sticky against his skin. “Yeah. I do too. Love you. I love you.”

Totally against his will, Yogi gets up and starts collecting their clothes, handing Gareki’s back to him in a messy little pile. They get dressed but they don’t leave; rather, they just stay, sitting on Yogi’s bed. Gareki reads, and Yogi keeps his head in his lap, playing with the fingers of his right hand. And it’s quiet between them for a long time, but that’s okay, that’s only sort of  _perfect_ , because if there’s something Gareki loves even more than this ridiculous boy in his lap, it’s the comfortable silences they can share. Yogi doesn’t get quite this relaxed with anyone else, and that feels like a bit of a victory, even more than the sex, really. 

And Gareki smiles to himself, completely and utterly pleased. He’s  _totally_ doing it again. He’ll grope Yogi underneath a table every damn night, if  _this_  is result it gets him.


End file.
